Her Last Promise Page 3

  It took me all day to pluck up the courage to ring Irwin Fortis. They were no more forthcoming on the phone than they were in the letter but at least I had an appointment for the following week. After booking the first off-peak train from Manchester Piccadilly to Euston, I jumped in my car and drove the familiar route to the hospice.

  I parked up in the surprisingly empty car park, the familiar sense of trepidation making my stomach roil. St Jude’s Hospice is a wonderful place, staffed by absolute angels, to whom myself and countless other people will be eternally grateful. St Jude though? The Patron Saint of Lost Causes. I know it’s a hospice but something a little more optimistic wouldn’t hurt, surely.

  Nan’s room had a window looking out over the pretty courtyard and her bed had been thoughtfully positioned to take full advantage of the view. She was fast asleep, her mouth hanging open, dried spittle caked in the corners. She looked peaceful, pain-free and I hesitated to wake her. Sleep was the only respite she got from the pain these days. It had all begun with the coughing but Nan hadn’t paid much attention to it. In fact, with her sixty-a-day habit, she hardly noticed it. Even when the cough became productive, often streaked with blood, she still didn’t say anything. It was only when she finally told me she’d been having chest pains for over a year that I whisked her to the doctor, but it was too late by then. The tumour is now so advanced that palliative care is the only option. At ninety-one, she’s had a good innings but she’s gone way beyond knocking at death’s door; she has one foot over the threshold. I’m no stranger to loss, but the thought of her no longer being around crushes me. Next to our Dylan, she’s the most treasured person in my life.

  I took hold of her hand, the silvery skin stretched over mountainous blue veins. ‘Nan,’ I whispered. ‘It’s me, Tara.’

  Her eyelids flickered open. ‘My beautiful girl.’

  I reached for the control which operated her back rest and with a soft whirr she rose up before me, her smile growing wider with every degree.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked and then without waiting for an answer, ‘How’s our Dylan?’

  ‘Still loving it. He’s definitely embraced the student lifestyle. He’s not picked up a Geordie accent yet though.’

  ‘I know, he rang me last week. Had a right good old natter, we did. He’s a good lad, Tara.’

  I nodded. ‘He thinks the world of you, Nan.’ My throat began to ache. ‘We both do,’ I managed.

  I turned away and busied myself straightening the already-neat pile of magazines on the bedside table, not trusting myself to speak.

  A week later, I elbowed my way onto the train at Piccadilly, my bag bulging with all the essentials I would need for the journey – newspaper, book, iPod and headphones, ham sandwiches. I was actually looking forward to just sitting back for a couple of hours and indulging in the things I always felt guilty about doing at home. I work two days a week on reception at the medical centre and as far as I’m concerned, I’ve earned the right to do whatever I like for the other three. It just doesn’t feel right though and I can’t sit in front of daytime television for more than half an hour before I get twitchy. It’s even worse when Moira, my cleaner, comes in. It was Ralph’s idea to hire her all those years ago. He thought it would give me more precious bonding time with Dylan and in a way, he was right, but there are only so many Thomas the Tank Engine books you can read before scouring the bath seems like a preferable way to pass the time. I don’t really need Moira’s domestic help anymore, as the two people who made the most mess in our house no longer live here, but the truth is she needs the money and I like her company. She knew about my meeting in London. She was convinced that some long-forgotten relative had died and left me a fortune. Goodness knows how she came to that conclusion. She knows my background as well as anybody.

  I found my seat on the train and politely asked the great lummox who was sitting in it to move. The display above quite clearly stated the seat was reserved so I’m not sure why he had to tut so much and make an overblown display of heaving down his bag from the rack. I settled myself into the seat, grateful that he had at least warmed it for me. I spread out my things on the table and relished the thought of the next couple of hours’ peace, hoping I wouldn’t be joined by someone who wanted to rabbit for the whole journey. Alas, I’d only got to page three of the paper before a rotund balding chap arrived by my side. He reached up to the bag rack, his armpits already stained a dark shade of blue. We hadn’t even pulled out of the station and yet this guy was perspiring for Britain. ‘Morning,’ he said, plonking himself down opposite me. ‘Going all the way to London?’ Oh, dear God! A talker.

  ‘Mmm . . .’ I mumbled, fervently hoping he’d change at Crewe.

  ‘Me too,’ he smiled.

  I smiled back. ‘Lovely.’ Then I reached for my noise-cancelling headphones.

  I could feel the river running down my back as I sat in the plush reception area at Irwin Fortis. It was a brisk autumn day but they’d over-compensated with the heating and the result was verging on tropical. I instantly regretted wearing my grey blouse. I picked up one of the magazines from the coffee table and wafted it in front of my face, then, taking a tissue from my sleeve, I surreptitiously dabbed at my shiny forehead. The receptionist noticed and smiled. ‘It is a bit warm in here, isn’t it?’ A bit warm! She’d got no idea. She must have only been in her twenties and was wearing a polo neck, something I haven’t been able to wear for the past five years.

  A door opened and a young man in a trendy electric-blue suit stepped forward, extending his hand. ‘Mrs Richards, sorry to keep you. I’m Jamie. Please come this way.’

  I followed him into the lift and we rode the sixteen floors whilst making excruciating small talk. There were mirrors on three sides and I caught a glimpse of my reflection from several angles, none of them particularly flattering. An image of Susie, Ralph’s young girlfriend, flashed up and for one fleeting, shallow moment, I could understand why he left me.

  Jamie opened the door to his office and indicated the way forward. ‘After you.’

  My eyes were immediately drawn to the massive window, the London skyline resplendent even though it was partially shrouded by mist. Jamie pulled out a chair for me, then took up his position behind the vast mahogany desk. He didn’t look much older than our Dylan so I assumed he must be some kind of intern and I noticed his hands were shaking. He clasped them together and rested them on the desk. ‘So, have you brought your documents?’

  The small talk was over. I leaned down, pulled the envelope out of my handbag and passed it over the desk. Jamie slid out my birth certificate, driving licence and passport. He opened the passport at the photograph page and studied my face. It was all I could do to stop myself squirming in the chair. I could almost read his mind, as he raised his eyebrows and looked at me, then back to the photograph. ‘I’ve had a stressful couple of years,’ I offered. ‘My husband left me and then . . .’

  Jamie held up his palm. ‘No need to explain, Mrs Richards.’

  He lifted the lid on the printer beside his computer and slid in my birth certificate. ‘I just need to make copies for our files.’ I nodded my acceptance then wondered briefly if I was just about to become the victim of an elaborate identity theft.

  Jamie clapped his hands. ‘Right, that’s all the formalities out of the way.’ He opened a buff file and pulled out a copy of the letter his firm had sent to me. ‘I expect you’re wondering what all this is about.’ He looked through the notes in the file, following every word with his finger, like a five-year-old learning to read. ‘OK,’ he said finally. ‘It appears somebody has been looking for you for a very long time, since 1981, in fact.’

  My immediate thought was someone was coming after me for money. The heat rose under my collar. ‘Oh,’ was all I could manage.

  Jamie reached across his desk and picked up a little box I’d not noticed until then. ‘Here.’

  My fingers were trembling so much it was difficult to prise the lid off. U
nderneath some black tissue paper was a business card. ‘Loxton’s Safe Deposit Box Company’. Frowning, I looked up at Jamie, who nodded at the box. I put the business card down and pulled out some more tissue paper. Resting on the bottom of the box was a small silver key. I held it up to the light, turning it in my fingers before clumsily dropping it onto the wooden desk. Jamie picked it up and stated the obvious. ‘It’s the key to a safe deposit box.’

  ‘So I gathered, but what’s in it?’

  Jamie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But whatever it is has been waiting for you for thirty-seven years.’

  6

  1978, San Sedeza, Spain

  The day began as it always did. At the first hint of the sun appearing over the horizon Leonardo was jolted from his sleep by the cockerel calling to his counterpart at the farm across the valley. Not the melodious cock-a-doodle-doo as depicted in children’s story books, but a strangulated screech which sounded like the poor bird was being throttled. The other hens scratched and clucked in the barn below, their quiet conversation almost lulling him back to sleep. He heard the clanking of the handle on the barn door as it was heaved open. Quiet footsteps followed and he smiled to himself as he lay back with his hands tucked behind his head, staring at the rafters.

  The small high-pitched voice carried up the steps. ‘Leo?’

  ‘Mmm . . . who’s that down there then?’ he teased.

  ‘It’s me. Mama says it’s time to get up.’

  ‘Aah, just five more minutes, Little One.’

  He heard his younger brother start to climb the ladder, taking his time, making sure he held on tightly just as Leo had shown him. His head appeared as he reached the top step, the indignation written into his dark eyes. ‘Leo, I keep telling you I’m not little anymore. I’m nearly eight.’

  ‘You’re not nearly eight, you’re barely seven and a half, Mateo.’ Leo held his arms out wide. ‘Come here, my camarada, you know you’ll always be my Little One.’

  Leo had already turned sixteen when his mother Marissa announced that she needed a hysterectomy. She had had what she called ‘women’s problems’ ever since giving birth to Leo when she was only a teenager herself. Although Leo had long since accepted the fact he would never have a sibling, on the day Marissa was admitted to hospital for the operation, his last flicker of hope was extinguished. As his mother was prepared for surgery, Leo and his father, Felipe waited in the corridor. His parents had been together since they were twelve years old and Felipe had buffed the tiles to a shine as he paced up and down the corridor, his features creased with worry. When the doctor emerged from Marissa’s room, his face was difficult to read but the first nugget of dread settled itself into Leo’s stomach. Something was evidently not right. The doctor addressed his father first. ‘Señor Perez.’ He placed a firm hand on Felipe’s shoulder. ‘I’m afraid it’s not possible for us to perform the surgery today.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Felipe. ‘She has worked herself up to this for weeks and now you are telling me that . . .’

  The doctor’s face cracked with a broad smile. ‘Señor Perez, we will not be performing the surgery because your wife is pregnant.’

  Leo clutched his father’s arm as Felipe swayed on the spot. ‘My mama is going to have a baby?’

  ‘Yes,’ the doctor confirmed. ‘And we estimate she’s about six months along.’

  Felipe found his voice. ‘You mean she’s going to have a baby in three months’ time?’

  ‘There or thereabouts, yes. Would you like to go in and see her?’

  ‘Did you hear that, Leo? You’re going to have a baby brother.’

  ‘Or a sister, Papa.’

  Felipe shook his head. ‘No, it’s a boy. God has sent us a miracle.’ He clasped his hands to his chest and mouthed a silent prayer.

  The baby was born three months later, a boy just as Felipe had predicted. Marissa’s face was used to smiling, the crow’s feet around her eyes testament to that, but when Leo entered her hospital room later that afternoon and saw her cradling his baby brother, he thought he had never seen her looking so happy or so radiant.

  She tilted the infant towards him. ‘Say hello to Mateo.’

  ‘The name means Gift from God,’ Felipe interjected.

  Leo was instantly smitten. The baby’s eyes were closed but his little mouth moved as though he was trying to talk. ‘Can I hold him?’

  Marissa passed the bundle over. As Leo gazed at the baby’s face he knew in that moment that he would be the best brother anybody had ever had. He would teach him how to ride, he would pick him up when he fell, he would protect him from anything and everything that threatened to harm him and above all else he would love him.

  ‘Hola, Little One,’ he’d whispered.

  Mateo scrambled off the top rung of the ladder and flung himself onto Leo’s bed.

  ‘Mama says you have to take me to the horse sale.’

  Leo rubbed his chin theatrically. ‘Well now, let me see. Does Mama say you’ve been a good boy?’

  Mateo’s eyes were wide and serious. He nodded furiously. ‘The best.’

  ‘In that case, you’d better scuttle off and tell Mama to make my coffee. I’ll see you in the kitchen.’

  ‘Thanks, Leo, I love you.’

  Mateo jumped off the bed and began to climb backwards down the ladder, his tongue sticking out of the side of his mouth in concentration. Leo waited until he heard the barn door close then pulled the sheets over his head and closed his eyes, hoping for just ten more minutes’ precious sleep.

  Although it was still cold, Leo loved this time of the year. February came with the glorious anticipation of the spring and summer ahead. His mother would be busy washing sheets, beating rugs and sweeping out the stone floors of the six guest bedrooms, shaking off the remnants of winter and coaxing a freshness back into the old farmhouse. His father would be tending to repairs in the stables, fixing broken hinges, leaking gutters and warped doors. It was left to Leo to prepare the horses for the season ahead, improve their fitness and make sure the tack still fitted comfortably. He’d kept their hooves trimmed over the winter but they would all need to be shod before the season began.

  He swung his legs out of bed and groped around on the floor for the jeans he had cast off the night before. He pulled on his leather boots and slung his shirt over his bare shoulders. His breath visible in the still morning air, he ran across the yard and into the farmhouse.

  ‘Aah, buenos dias, hijo,’ greeted his mother as he walked into the kitchen. She placed a cup of strong coffee in his hands.

  ‘Morning, Mama,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. She smelled of lemon and garlic and lavender. All the things that reminded Leo of home. She’d already scraped her jet-black hair into a tight bun which pulled at the skin around her eyes. She blew out her cheeks as she carried a large pot of boiling water from the stove, looking as though she’d done a day’s work already.

  ‘Let me take that, Mama,’ Leo said. ‘You sit down and drink your coffee.’

  She slumped gratefully into a chair, her ample frame spilling over the sides. ‘Ah, gracias, Leo. Now, you know you’re taking Mateo to the sale today?’

  ‘Yes, Mama, he’s already been to see me this morning.’

  ‘He’s excited, Leo, but you take good care of him, you hear me?’

  Glancing at the ceiling, Leo suppressed a smile. ‘What’s going to happen to him at a horse sale?’

  Marissa tutted. ‘You never know, Leo, all those beasts with their gnashing teeth and flashing hooves.’

  ‘You let your imagination wander far too much, Mama.’

  He walked over to the window. Mateo was in the yard tying up his own caramel-coloured pony. The little boy put his arms around Lala’s neck, repeatedly kissing her soft coat. The pony nuzzled in his pocket for a mint. In one slick move, Mateo vaulted onto the pony’s back and continued to caress her mane. Leo nodded his approval. ‘He’s certainly following in Papa’s and my footsteps.’

  Marissa heaved
herself up and joined her son at the window. ‘Mmm . . . didn’t stand a chance, did he? He was hardly going to take up the flamenco.’

  Leo downed his coffee. ‘Right, I’ll just get myself cleaned up and then we’ll be off.’

  Marissa prodded at the hard muscles on his stomach. ‘Do you have to wander around half-naked? You can’t be doing that once the guests arrive, you know?’ She forked her fingers through his hair. ‘And this is too long, Leo.’

  He glanced at himself in the mirror over the fireplace. ‘I like it, Mama.’ He winked at her. ‘And so does Gabriela.’

  In the village of San Sedeza, the main square was reluctantly coming to life, taking its time, easing itself into the day. Half-timbered houses leaned over cobbled streets, shutters were being opened, pavements sluiced down, trestle tables loaded with plump fruit and vegetables, their bright colours contrasting with the bleached white of the plaza. The climb to the top of the walled hill-top village was short but could be challengingly steep, especially to the elderly and visitors not used to the summer heat or altitude. Leo took Mateo’s hand as they entered the warm maltiness of the panadería, only slightly out of breath.

  ‘Are you going to ask her to be your girlfriend?’ Mateo asked.

  ‘What? Who?’

  Mateo giggled. ‘You know who, Leo. Gabriela.’

  Leo squeezed his brother’s hand. ‘Shush now, she’ll hear you.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re taking so long about it, Leo.’

  Gabriela finished laying out the pan blanco on the wooden shelves and smiled at the brothers. ‘You pair are up bright and early.’ She wrapped two of the loaves in tissue paper for them.

  ‘We’re going to the horse sale,’ Mateo beamed. ‘We’re getting a new horse.’

  ‘Oh, well isn’t that lovely?’

  ‘I want a Palomino, a girl one, so she can be friends with Lala.’

  Leo ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘We’re not choosing paint, Mateo. The colour doesn’t matter. It has to have the right temperament. Some of our guests don’t know how to ride, remember.’